


Unexpected Visitor

by alikelystory



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alikelystory/pseuds/alikelystory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It had been a week since the funeral; less than two months since my brother and John Watson fled London to escape Professor Moriarty. Less than a month since John Watson had returned alone, struck dumb with grief. </i> </p><p>Not long after news of Sherlock Holmes' death reaches London, Mycroft Holmes has an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [the Sherlock Holmes kinkmeme](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com) in 2010.

It was ten minutes to eight when I reached the door of my house. It had been an exhausting day; few people knew of my relation to Sherlock, but all of those who did came to my office to give their sympathies. It had been a week since the funeral; less than two months since my brother and John Watson fled London to escape Professor Moriarty. Less than a month since John Watson had returned alone, struck dumb with grief. 

As I reached for my keys, I happened to notice new marks upon the door and frame, similar to those made when forcing open a door. It would seem that I had a visitor, and an uninvited one at that. I unlocked the door and stepped in, hung up my hat and stuck my cane in the umbrella stand. 

“Hello, Sherlock. I see the news of your demise have indeed been greatly exaggerated. Care for some tea?” 

Sherlock regarded me from his position on my settee. “I must admit I was expecting a bit more emotion from my own brother when he finds out I did not die.” 

In truth, I had suspected Sherlock had not perished at Reichenbach Falls as soon as I received Dr. Watson’s letter. The doctor had written me immediately after discovered the letter left behind by Sherlock, and wrote with greatest sympathy and kindness that he regretted to inform me of my brother’s passing. He would have waited to tell me in person, he said, but the newspapers had picked up the story and he wished for me to hear it from him first. I had no doubt that his grief and devotion to my brother was genuine; it was evident in every word of his letter.

John Watson is the kind of man that would think it disloyal to question a friend, but I have no such qualms. Immediately I questioned that Sherlock had fallen off the cliff with Professor Moriarty; Moriarty is renowned for his brilliance, but his body is merely a vehicle for his great mind and he is not muscular by any means. Sherlock, however, has made a career out of chasing down criminals and has a wiry sort of strength about him. Despite the stress I knew him to be under, I severely doubted that the Professor could physically overpower my brother. 

“Now’s not the time for your childish love of dramatics.” I poured myself a finger of brandy from the sideboard, and on second thought added a little more. It wasn’t every day that one discovered his supposedly dead brother in one’s sitting room. I poured a second glass for Sherlock and handed it to him. “Does Dr. Watson know?”

“No. And I have no intention of telling him.”

“Why the devil not? I’ve never seen a man so torn by grief.” 

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly at that, but remained silent, toying with his glass. 

I settled myself in my armchair and sighed, thinking regretfully of my supper and my bed, both of which were likely to be forgotten tonight. “Tell me what happened.” 

In an effort to be succinct, I will not repeat verbatim the story my brother told me. To sum up his story, which took the better part of two hours to tell: John Watson was sent away by means of a note which Sherlock suspected was a ruse. His suspicions were proved correct when Professor Moriarty himself appeared and threatened Sherlock. There was a fight, Moriarty fell, and my brother decided to take this unexpected opportunity to fake his own death, presumably to avoid the attentions of those who swore to kill him, and climbed a cliff near the path. However, Sherlock came across Colonel Moran, the best of Moriarty’s men. He climbed back down the cliff and fled to Florence, then made his way covertly to London and finally my sitting room. 

I stared down at the floor for a few moments, digesting this…remarkable story, then got to my feet, not without some difficulty. “You may stay in the second bedroom as long as need be; I assume that is why you came here, yes? Get some sleep and we’ll talk further in the morning.” 

Sherlock stared at me blankly. “That’s all you have to say? ‘We’ll talk further in the morning?’ “ 

“Sherlock, a _child_ could see through that…that load of rubbish. Frankly I’m insulted that you believed I would fall for such a thing.” He stared at me, speechless for - I flatter myself to think - the first time in his life. “You mean to tell me James Moriarty – _James Moriarty_ – went to Reichenbach Falls with no further plan than to kill you, despite the fact that he carried no weapons and you physically outmatch him? And furthermore I am supposed to believe that Colonel Moran, one of the Queen’s best marksmen, came along, sat on a cliff while you tossed the Professor into the Falls, and instead of shooting you on the spot he _threw rocks at you_? I am led to conclude that you are tired to the point of sheer exhaustion to have come up with such poppycock.” I snorted derisively. “ _Really_ , Sherlock.” 

I expected him to be angry. I very much expected him to deny it, stubborn as always. Instead, he continued to stare at me, looking as frightened as if I was a judge about to pass a life sentence. For the first time, I noticed the pallor of his skin, his cheekbones sharp as knives and clothes loose-fitting, his eyes haunted and sunken. When he stood to stare out the window at the street below, the light from the gaslamp brought him into better view and I was shocked to see silver threaded through his ink-black hair.

“Why are you running, _mon frère_?” I asked him gently. “Since Moran already knows you are alive, wouldn’t you be safer here in London, under the protection of Lestrade and his men?” _And John Watson_ , I did not need to add. 

“Moran is ruthless, completely without mercy,” Sherlock said quietly, his back still to me. “He shall hunt me until his dying breath and kill anyone who stands in his way. Lestrade is a good man and I do not wish to send him and his men to slaughter. I am not worth it.

“It’s personal for him now. I hadn’t counted on that. He and Moriarty were friends, you see.” Sherlock turned back towards me with this revelation, his voice still low and soft as a secret. “He said that if I returned to London he would kill everyone I cared about, everyone who had ever helped me or showed me a kindness. And then, when I had lost everything and everyone close to me, when I was at my darkest moment, _then_ he would kill me. “

His eyes were pleading, though for what, I did not know. Absolution? Understanding? Assistance? 

He dropped his eyes, unable to meet my gaze. “They said they would kill him, Mycroft. But as long as he thinks I am dead they have no reason to harm him.” 

Many people have accused my brother of being heartless. This is not true. My brother has a heart; he just guards it better than most. 

Sherlock sank into the settee again, looking worn. 

“You must care for him a great deal, or else you would not be here asking for advice,” I said carefully. I was by no means adept at dealing with problems of this nature, and dealing with Sherlock’s emotions was like dealing with a wild, potentially dangerous creature. Too much banging about and he would feel threatened and attack, and no one save John Watson knew the sharpness of Sherlock’s tongue when he was angry better than I. 

He snapped, “I have not asked you for _advice_ , I merely – “

“Haven’t gotten to the point yet, yes,” I interrupted. “If you were truly as unfeeling as you pretend, I would have gotten a message of some sort as soon as you remembered to let me know you were still alive and what you wished me to do with your affairs. You would never have taken the risk of coming to London - unless you desired my counsel.“

His anger fled as quickly as it came. Sherlock dropped his head into his hands, his elbows braced on his knees. Suddenly I remembered him as a small boy, all wide grey eyes and scuffed knees and far too serious. Sherlock and I have never been close – the distance of years in our ages and too much similarity in disposition is enough for neither of us to get along for long periods of time – but I love my brother and it pulled at me to see him like this. 

“Stay, Sherlock. Go to your doctor. Tell him everything, and then we shall go to the Yard and set about what to do next. I am not without resources as well, you know.“

“Watson has no talent for prevarication. His story of my death shan’t convince anyone unless he believes himself that I have shuffled off this mortal coil. I will not allow you all to risk yourselves for me. I shall deal with Moran myself. Then – then I may return to London.” 

“I see.” And I did: my brother was in love with John Watson, and he loved the doctor too much to trust him. In his desire to keep Dr. Watson safe, Sherlock was systematically destroying him. He had not seen John Watson the day of the funeral. I had, and the look on that man’s face when they lowered the empty casket into the ground will haunt me for the rest of my life. There was something broken deep in John Watson’s eyes now, a bottomless fracture just beneath the surface. 

“Have you actually read any of those stories of his that you have spoken so disparagingly of?”

Sherlock shot me a glance at the non sequitur. “Of course – though I hardly see how that is relevant.”

“Then you did not read them carefully enough, _mon frère_. I daresay a man like John Watson would want to share his love with the world, would want others to love and admire as he does. Those stories are as close to shouting your name from the rooftops as he can get.” 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to mine, and I noticed with faint alarm that his hands were shaking. I hoped I hadn’t pushed him too far by telling him, but I have never mollycoddled my brother and wasn’t about to start now. 

“Do you love him?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “God help me, but yes. Which is why I _cannot stay in London._ ” 

I leaned forward, speaking urgently. If nothing else, I hoped that this would get through to him. “If you make this decision, Sherlock, you’re making it for _you_ , not for him. He loves you. He grieves for you. Take my advice – go to him, tell him what happened. And for God’s sake, don’t give him the same rubbish story you told me. He shall probably punch you in the nose for condescending to him, and I shan’t blame him a whit.” 

Sherlock nearly smiled at that, the corners of his lips tipping up just slightly. But I could tell that I had not convinced him – in the morning I would find him gone, vanished like smoke. Perhaps I would get word occasionally, but as far as John Watson and the rest of the world was concerned, Sherlock Holmes was dead. 

\--So you see, Dr. Watson, it is not because my brother did not care for you that he did not tell you the true story of the events at Reichenbach Falls, but rather because he cared too much. It is not my story to tell, but I know my brother and he would not want you to know what he would consider was a moment of weakness. But I am giving you the truth, Doctor, to do with it what you will. Now you may make an informed decision as you could not in the past. 

Yours, 

Mycroft Holmes 

April, 1894

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought Holmes' story in The Empty House about why he fucked off for three years was pretty stupid. Of course this was because ACD had reached entirely new heights of Don't Give a Damn at this point in his career, and so trying to wrangle Holmes' explanation into something approaching logic resulted in this story.


End file.
